


Your Thighs Steeped in Burning Flowers

by Makalaure



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: You set a terrible example. It is best he does not know.





	Your Thighs Steeped in Burning Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://atheistj.tumblr.com/post/160164560490/imwhe-this-is-how-the-stars-wrote-your-story) Tumblr post, mainly the captions.

  **Your Thighs Steeped in Burning Flowers**

Your name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is how the stars wrote your story.

***

_This is how you will be happy._  
  
You are kneeling in a cabin, wrapped in clothes that are not your clothes, and sipping tea that is not your tea, while Qui-Gon watches the HoloNet News on the couch with his fingers pressed against his lips. Outside, the snowstorm is so thick that you expect you will have to shovel your way out by the end of it.  
  
“This tea has the flavour of wet paper,” you say, glaring at it. Maybe it would taste better if you had actually _found_ the bandits who are terrorising the locals, but so far you and your Master’s luck has been thin. You have been here three days.  
  
Qui-Gon looks up, not bothering to uncurl from his slouch, and mutes the volume. “It’s not my fault you dropped your stash off a cliff along with your entire kitbag. If you dislike the tea from the ship so much, give it to me,” he says mildly.  
  
_My beautiful Blue Nettle blend from Stewjon_ , you lament. “No,” you mumble. Tea is tea, even if it is the insipid stuff stocked on the Order’s ships. At the very least, it warms your hands - Qui-Gon’s garb is too baggy on you to shield you fully from the cold. Before you, the fire jumps and crackles and you lean towards it.  
  
“I don’t know why I let you drink tea when you’re so young. Master Dooku didn’t let me touch the stuff till I was eighteen.”  
  
You know Qui-Gon is teasing you, but you sniff into your cup anyway. Then you sneeze, twice, hard enough to spill some of your drink onto your trousers, because you inhaled the smoke from the fire. Like any dignified Jedi, you say, “Ugh,” and wipe your nose on the back of your splotchy hand.  
  
Qui-Gon gets up and ambles over to you before crouching down and peering into your face, as if searching for something. He looks young for his age, you know, and now, with the firelight haloing him, the lines on his cheeks seem to melt away, and you think you might be able to guess what he looked like ten, twenty years ago. Had he always been this ragged, with his hair sloppily tied up and holes in his tunics?  
  
“What?” you say, annoyed at the scrutiny.  
  
Qui-Gon tilts his head to one side. “Obi-Wan, are you sulking?” There is a smile playing on his lips and his eyes twinkle.  
  
“Jedi do not sulk.”  
  
Qui-Gon laughs, which irks you further, and swaddles you in a hug. You yowl against his shoulder, squirming as much as you can without spilling more tea, and shrill, “Master, I’m _fourteen_! I’m too old for this!”  
  
Backing away, still cackling, Qui-Gon gives a bow fit for the presence of a queen and says, “Well, then, old man, it is time for you to make our dinner.”  
  
You sputter, and huff, and stand up, heading for the kitchenette and turning on the stove and putting a pan on to heat the instant meals that had mercifully been in Qui-Gon’s kitbag. They look like vomit and taste like nothing, but they’re not as bad as the nutri-bars you resort to in more dire circumstances. Behind you, Qui-Gon calls, in a gleeful, sing-song voice, “And brew some tea for me, Padawan-mine.”  
  
_Up yours_ , you almost say, and grin to yourself picturing the object (probably a shoe) that would be flung at you for your insolence.  
  
Letting your head fall back, you sigh, gazing at the cloudy window above the sink. It is very quiet. Here in this cabin on this backwater planet there is only you, and your Master lounging in the sitting area. It feels –  
  
( _Like home. Like family_.)  
  
– Comfortable.  
  
When you bring out a pot to boil the water, you decide you will have another cup of tea.

***

_This is how you will bleed._  
  
Someone is screaming. It cannot be you, because your lungs are on fire, or they feel that way. You know some things, vaguely: you are flat on your back, there’s smoke in the sky and blood on the streets, and – and this is how it should have been. You with your sight darkening and Qui-Gon alive, triumphant.  
  
_Did I save him?_ you think, with a rush of hope. If you are lying here, dying, then maybe you did. You are glad.  
  
A dark splotch appears against the sky. You hear sounds and realise the splotch is talking – yelling. “-Wan!”  
  
Yes, you suppose you look wan. There is no need for it to be rude.  
  
“Master Obi-Wan!”  
  
The splotch, you realise, is Anakin. Oh. You remember. Qui-Gon cannot still be here, you think with resignation. You had decided if you could not protect Qui-Gon you would protect Anakin. That is what you had done. Shien is not as suited as Soresu to deflect blaster bolts. Your lightsaber had been knocked out of your hands, but you used your body to stop the shots, which evidently was good enough.  
  
Anakin is alive, you think, giddy.  
  
“Master, don’t do this!” Anakin is saying, striking you over the heart with his closed fist. “Goddamn, don’t do this to me!”  
  
Don’t do what? Have you hurt him? You have never wanted to hurt him. You can see more clearly now - there are tears on Anakin’s grimy cheeks. What have you done? You want to reach out, wipe the streaks off his face, tell him he’s fine. He is barely fifteen, but you have not seen him cry in a long time.  
  
He punches your chest again, hard enough for you to jerk off the ground, and suddenly you’re sucking in great gulps of air, hacking and wheezing from all the smoke, and the pain comes back in a flood. You make a sound that is undignified and desperate, and Anakin is sobbing even harder now, shaking. You want to soothe him, but he is gathering you against his chest, burbling into your shoulder.  
  
_Reliefworryfury_ radiates off him. The tangled thicket of emotion has the power of a star going nova, and it is too much for your weakened body. Nausea rises in you and you turn your head and dry-heave.  
  
“They’re sending paramedics, you’ll be fine,” Anakin is babbling, and even through the fog of your mind you think, _Here on Coruscant? They’ll end me before the wounds do_.  
  
He adds, in a strangled voice, “Master, I almost killed them,” and holds you even tighter, like you are a stuffed toy. You know he used to have one in Mos Espa and missed it, but Initiates above the age of five are not permitted them. Stupidly, your heart squeezes at the thought of that ragged old thing that Anakin said he’d left on his bed.  
  
Then what he actually said slams into you and you try to say, “What are you on about?” but what comes out of your mouth is a weak groan.  
  
“The Seps,” he says, probably sensing your question. “I would’ve killed them. I’d have done it for you.” He bows his head. The air is thick with his feelings. Shame and humiliation and insecurity, suffocating, like a cloth around your head.

Your throat feels like you haven’t had water in days but you manage to grate out, “No.” Anakin has always been slotted between Light and Dark, always been volatile, childish (through no fault of his – he had a different background, a harsh one), but such misery in him is unprecedented.  
  
“Master,” he says, pleads, as if he wants you to fix him. Anakin does not need _fixing_.  
  
“I have total faith in you.” You lift your hands into his dirty curls, stroke them. “You are…so very bright in the Force, my Padawan.” You want to say more, offer more, but the pain is too sharp and your vision starts blurring again. And it strikes you, though you have always known it, that you would do anything for him, anything he wanted.  
  
(And that is your problem, right there – attachment seems wired into your DNA. Perhaps the AgriCorps really would have suited you better. For the first time, you seriously consider that the Council had been _right_ in sending you off.)  
  
It is lucky your shields are up. You set a terrible example. It is best he does not know.  
  
He keeps crying, near hysterical, and when the paramedics arrive they have to forcefully yank him off you.  
  
The welts his nails leave on your skin do not heal for days.

***

_This is how you will hurt._  
  
You are well acquainted with ghosts (they live in your memories, in your dreams; they snag on the edges of your thoughts), but none of them have had the audacity to seem this real.  
  
Qui-Gon keeps reappearing, after that first time on Mortis.  
  
When you are discussing how to conduct a surgical strike with Cody, Qui-Gon is lounging in your chair, a little, knowing smirk on his face. (You cannot tell if the gleam in his eyes is of pride or resigned disappointment.) A fortnight later, when Anakin stumbles into your tent and flops into your lap when you are sitting in light meditation, winding his arms tight around you and whining like he is nine again, Qui-Gon hovers by the tent-flap, an eyebrow raised as if to indicate a word starting with 'a'.  
  
On afternoon, in the Temple, he is there when you are making tea in your quarters, hovering behind you. You tap two teaspoons of Blue Nettle into your teapot, and he says, "May I have a cup as well, Padawan?"  
  
"I wasn't aware ghosts drank tea," you reply without turning around, switching on the kettle.  
  
"You'd be surprised."  
  
"Do you defy even the afterlife?"  
  
Qui-Gon reaches across you to take another cup from the shelf, and you draw a sharp breath when his sleeve brushes your arm. Stiff, you watch as he lifts the cup and places it beside yours. He is so close, your back nearly against his chest.  
  
Cold anxiety flares in you. You had realised, of course, after you were Knighted, that Qui-Gon had probably known about your insignificant feelings. It is not uncommon for Padawans' hero-worship of their Masters to morph into...something else. The knowledge does little to calm you now. "I'm sorry," you say, terrified, the way you were when you first began getting visions and you didn't know how to deal with them, with the onslaught of the uncontrolled Force.  
  
Qui-Gon's big hand rests on your shoulder and you think you might black out from how fast your heart is beating. He turns you around as easily as if you are a rag doll, and you find him not that hazy blue, but _his_ colours, the brownsilver of his long, dishevelled hair, the peach of his weathered skin. He smiles. A part of your mind shrieks _wrongwrongwrong_ , the way it does when you become aware you are dreaming, but you do nothing when his fingers trail down your arm.  
  
He grips your wrist and you hiss. It feels as though your bones will snap but he is your Master and you trust him (you're supposed to), so you just stand there. He leans forward, down (he is so much taller than you remember), and his mouth is by your ear when he rumbles, "Would that I had trained Anakin instead."  
  
You blink. You are alone, your back against the counter and the kettle whistling. A small sound rips from your throat. You stumble towards the kitchen table and sit heavily in a chair.  
  
What had your Master meant? That he wished he, personally, had trained Anakin, because you were not competent? Or that he wished he had rejected you as a Padawan, and that Anakin had been there to replace you all those years ago?  
  
You take deep breaths, picture a flame and focus on it, trying to still your shaking hands.  
  
Later, when Anakin comes in and asks you what’s wrong, you laugh, a tad manic even to your own ears.  
  
Anakin seems to notice, because he makes you take off your shoes and brews some tea for you and, as expected, it’s too hot and too bitter (you actually reversed the tradition of the Padawan serving the Master with him), but you drink it anyway, your tongue curling from the burn. If Anakin had seen there had been two cups instead of one on the counter, he says nothing of it.

***

 _This is how you will try._  
  
Your joints hurt. It is as if all your battle injuries are coming back, now that you are living in such a sedentary fashion. The credits that had seemed so abundant at the beginning of your exile now appear meagre. You hazard seeing a doctor in Mos Espa. He makes you wait three hours, shakes his head, mutters, “Looking for attention,” and gives you an analgesic that barely takes the edge off the pain.  
  
The physiotherapy you remember from your Temple and war days works better. Shoulders, neck, knees, back. You exercise them for hours each day, just so you can function. You feel like you’re sixty even though you’re not forty. Meditation helps too, and you split your time between pain alleviation and the job Yoda gave you.  
  
When you finally manage to contact Qui-Gon and ask about…then, he narrows his eyes. “It was not me,” he says, and you are relieved. Suddenly, your mundane surroundings in your hut are grand and welcoming. The mustiness of your old things is as sweet as the scent of Serennan roses, the worn synthetic carpet beneath you soft as velvet.  
  
But Qui-Gon continues, his expression grave, “Padawan, I would ask if you consulted a healer, but since you’re asking me, I’m assuming you didn’t.”  
  
You wave him off. You have needed a healer for many things, and you are still here. “We need to talk about Luke and Leia.”  
  
Qui-Gon stares hard at you, and then sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. He appears as he did the day he died, well preserved, a few wrinkles wreathing his mouth, but the gesture makes him look his age. “Yes,” he says with resignation.  
  
You both agree it is best that Luke is taught the Jedi ways; such a strong Force-sensitive should not be left untrained. A bitter, petty part of you sneers, _Look how well that turned out_ , and you tell it to go away. Luke is far younger than Anakin had been when he was taken to Coruscant, and also seems to posses the more serene temperament of his mother. Moreover, Owen and Beru will be good guardians.  
  
But when you ask them permission to train Luke, Owen almost puts his fist in your face. “Haven’t you killed enough Skywalkers already, Kenobi?” he spits. That night, you do not eat.  
  
Still, you watch over Luke, even if you are forbidden from teaching him. It is the only thing you can do now. Of all the tasks you have been given, this is the most difficult, this life of herding bantha and eopies and surveying the wastes for Tusken Raiders and prowling the area for Jabba’s goons. Sometimes, you bring out your saber. Mostly, you sit around. Qui-Gon helps, even when he is not speaking. It’s better when he does, though.  
  
“Soldier, you have become,” he says with amusement one afternoon, when you are griping about the monotony and your aching thoracic back. “Find your center, you must, young Master Kenobi.”  
  
“I want to hit you.” You can’t – you can’t touch him at all.  
  
When you realise Luke likes the idea of flying, you begin to fashion ships, carving them from wood. They become more elaborate as you go along, more like the actual ships you used to zip around in. (Your stomach still churns at the thought.) You leave them by Shmi’s grave, and Luke’s beatific smile when he receives them is the thing you look forward to most in the world.

 ***

 _This is how you will die._  
  
You block out the image of Luke's gaze, brimming with confusion and anxiety and concern.  
  
After the first slice of pain, Vader's lightsaber feels like nothing, like the whisper of snow against your flesh. There is a wrenching sensation, then a bout of dizziness, like you've had too much to drink on an empty belly. When you open your eyes you are in a far country, with a field of tall wheat stretching into the distance, and a clear blue sky above. The tips of your toes and fingers tingle, and you realise it is because of the energy of the Force, stronger here than you have ever felt it.  
  
A way off there is a tall gnarled tree with twisting branches and no leaves, and beneath it stands...  
  
You stumble forward. Your body – can it be called that? – feels weightless even as your bare feet hit the earth, and you collapse in your Master's arms.  
  
"Obi-Wan," he says softly, brushing your hair from your forehead. He holds you patiently, murmuring your name with calm, assured reverence, like it is a prayer. You do not want to let go of him. You want to stay this way forever, with your Master stroking your hair and his solid warmth cocooning you.  
  
At length you pull yourself away with reluctance. You touch the tips of your trembling fingers against his bristled jaw. It tickles.  
  
You have failed, again and again and again, but he says, voice thick with emotion, "I am so proud of you." Impressions are pelted at your mind – impressions, you realise, that are Qui-Gon's perceptions of you: a blaze tearing across the universe, a proud bright sword raised up in the dark.  
  
He takes your face in his hands, says, "Well done," in a tone that suggests words cannot capture what he really wants to say, and you embrace him again, weak with gratitude.  
  
You and Qui-Gon sit beneath the tree, talking. Neither of you are strictly free of duty, but there is no longer the urgency of _here-now_. You both indulge in chatter, the way you have not done since you were a Master-Padawan pair. Qui-Gon picks pale yellow wildflowers from the earth. They have a smell like honey. He tucks one behind your ear, and you laugh.  
  
“We are on the fringes of the space-time continuum,” Qui-Gon says wryly, “but we have not transcended it yet. At least, that is what I think.”  
  
There is no need in this limbo (which is what Qui-Gon calls it) for sleep, or rest, or food. It is always daytime, always pleasantly warm, like the first stirrings of summer on Coruscant. Time here is clouded; it is difficult to tell apart an hour, a day; you find yourself counting seconds, marking them with your thumb on your index finger.  
  
Even more oddly, you are aware of Luke calling to you in the physical world, his soul crying out in despair and grief. You send waves of reassurance to him through your bond. He will be fine, you know – he has the Force, and his wayward, pig-headed friends – but you still worry.  
  
You try to guide Luke, praying that your experience as a teacher is not all shaky, that you will not lead this child to ruin. It goes well, in the end. Song and dance and bonfire. Balance. You almost wish you were there.  
  
Qui-Gon hangs back, his arms crossed over his chest in smugness.  
  
“Shut up,” you tell him fondly.  
  
He raises his palms in mock defence.  
  
As time passes, Qui-Gon begins to fade, growing ever more translucent, till you can see the swaying wheat through him. You knew this would happen, and yet you feel a pang of sadness, of nostalgia. One can only stay in this realm for so long before one truly joins the Force. When Qui-Gon disappears, dissipating into the air soundlessly, there is a small smile on his lips.  
  
Not much later – you have made several bracelets out of the wildflowers in your idleness, and they lie scattered on the ground – Anakin joins you. Before you can say anything, he falls to one knee, bows his head, and says, "Master, forgive me," and you would say he never had to ask, but that would be a lie. You are not so noble as to brush aside the murder of your friends, the genocide of the Jedi, to say nothing of Vader's other crimes.  
  
And yet now that he has asked, you cannot find it in you to say no.  
  
"What is Luke like?" he asks, as you sit with your backs against the tree. He picks up one of the bracelets, delicately, as if afraid it will disintegrate at his touch.  
  
You take it from him and slip it onto his wrist, and he jerks in surprise before his expression grows dazed. "You know already. Powerful. Light, to the core."  
  
"I mean to you?"  
  
"Family," you say, because it is true.  
  
The Anakin of the tail end of the Clone Wars might have stiffened in jealousy, but this one smiles, with a tender, broken-hearted look. "He loves you," he says. “I felt it.”  
  
You cup his cheek.  
  
When you begin to slip away, a sigh escapes you. It is a pleasing, agreeable feeling, like the unknotting of muscles in a hot bath, like floating on a sea. Anakin clasps your hands in his, meeting your eyes. You kiss his knuckles.  
  
The Force cradles you, singing.

-end-


End file.
